Home
by SparxFlame
Summary: Home is wherever I'm with you... The Apocalypse is over, Team Free Will are still together, and things are looking up. Maybe, just maybe, they're coming home. Sabriel, Destiel, part of the Pub!verse.


**A/N: A bit of fluffy I wrote whilst waiting for my choir concert, because I write too much angst and I need something sweet. Inspired by the song _Home_ by the Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeroes, which is officially my Team Free Will anthem because it's adorable. Part of the Pub!verse (see my profile for more info).**

* * *

They've parked the Impala under a tree.

Dean's not entirely sure if it's allowed, driving the car off the road and through the waist-high grass to bring it to a halt under the spreading branches of the oak tree in the middle of the field, but he doesn't particularly care. If someone comes and complains at him, he'll move it – but there are no houses in sight, and for the past four hours they've only seen three cars along the same track, so he's not overly worried.

Somewhere behind him, behind the car, he can hear the whining noise of Gabriel trying to convince Sam to play a game of hide-and-seek or tag, and his brother's reluctant sighs. He smiles to himself as Sam laughs, and then there's a rustle of grass and a yelp of indignation and _Gabriel's_ laughing too, and Dean seriously hopes his brother knows what he's doing, wrestling with an archangel.

He leans back against the Impala, the dark metal door warm against his back and head from a day in the sun. Beside him, Castiel – who has, for once, taken off his coat in the face of the warm summer sun, and rolled his sleeves up – echoes the motion, tipping his head back and gazing up at the sky, exposing the line of his neck.

His eyes are lightly closed, mouth slightly open, as if he's trying to breath in the sun, taste it, swallow it. He looks... at peace. For the first time Dean can remember, actually. For far too long, the angel's been trying to carry the world and the Winchester brothers on his back, and it's shown on his face. Now, though, the sharp lines at the corners of his eyes and the hard, broken set of his face has smoothed off into a

From what sounds like half way across the field, there's a screech, a thump, and then gleeful laughter. Dean can't tell who it's coming from, but he can hear his brother calling, "No- no, Gabriel, stop- I can't- no, _don't_, I'm ticklish- agh!" and sends a silent nod of approval to the angel. He approves in general of anything that makes his little brother laugh and thinks that maybe, despite his initial reservations, the archangel just might be good for them all in the end.

There's the dry rasp of grass across fabric from next to him, and he turns his head to see that Castiel has shifted – sitting upright, legs crossed– and is watching him with an odd, intent expression. His eyes seem an impossible shade of blue, deep and warm and drowning, and Dean's fairly sure it's not just the light. He smiles, ever so slightly, and Castiel smiles back, tilting his head just a fraction in question. Dean nods, shrugging one shoulder, and leans back against the Impala. Castiel leans back too, letting himself slide sideways along the car until he's leant against Dean – shoulder to shoulder, head to head.

They sit like that for a while, in silence. Words aren't needed. From behind them, Sam's shrieked laughter goes slowly silent, and then is replaced by a wail of outrage and Gabriel's voice echoes over the grass. "You're not allowed to do that! I'm an- an archangel, a servant of the Lord, this is undignified, _put me down!_" Dean feels Castiel's near-silent chuckles in the shiver of the angel's shoulder next to his, and grins affectionately. Sam was never one to take things lying down.

He raises a hand, runs lazy fingers through Castiel's hair and listens to the low hum of approval the motion drags from him. It makes his lips twitch upwards again, eyes slipping closed as he feels the vibrations of the low noise through his chest. Warmth spills across his face, chased by a breeze – the sun is falling. Night will be here soon, and then it will be cold, and Dean thinks then he might regret stopping for three hours to sit in a field under a tree and listen to the laughter of his friends. But here, now, he can't bring him to regret it; not with Castiel practically purring, and Sam and Gabriel laughing, and he himself feeling warm and content and _safe._

And at some point there will be monsters to hunt and demons to fight, wounds to stitch, arguments to be had and resolved, thinking to be done. What do they do now, when the apocalypse is over? When the world is safe, and Heaven and Hell have gone for time out? When the only hunts left are the ordinary ones, that can be taken care of by any Hunter on the face of the planet and doesn't need a broken, exhausted angels-humans tag team?

But those are questions for another time. For now, there is only a field of grass, an oak tree, a 1967 Chevrolet Impala, and an angel leaning against his human and watching the sun go down.


End file.
